


Antivan Leather

by Felicia_Rottingstone



Series: The Rogue of Orzammar [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Communication Failure, F/M, Low Self-Esteem, Morrigan gives insightful advice, Multi, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felicia_Rottingstone/pseuds/Felicia_Rottingstone
Summary: Why exactly did Natia Brosca not jump straight into bed with Zevran Arainai as soon as she met him, even though she clearly wanted to? Why else? An inability to properly communicate and surprisingly low self-esteem.
Relationships: Morrigan & Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Brosca, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Series: The Rogue of Orzammar [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1468003
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. Denying a Desire

Why did Natia spare Zevran’s life? She couldn’t quite understand it herself. He wasn’t the first elf she’d met, but his accent was like music, and she knew, from that first day, that she wanted to listen to him talk for hours. He had happily done so, and she considered his life debt paid in full.

She wasn’t stupid, as some members of her party wondered. She knew he was dangerous, that she’d have to watch him, that she’d have to see him scoop his soup from the same pot and watch as he ate it before she could take a bite. She knew that she’d have to take watch with him for a while, lest he slipped into her tent while she slept to finish the deed. She even knew not to be alone with him while foraging or hunting or collecting firewood. The temptation to redeem himself in the eyes of his employers would be too great, in those first few weeks.

Despite the dangers, Natia didn’t doubt her choice to recruit him for a moment. He was nice to look at, and when he’d told stories of his conquests, the men and women he’d bedded in between kills, she fantasized of being one of them. What would it be like, to bed an elf? How would his long fingers feel as they danced over her skin? How would his narrow hips feel when she wrapped her legs around them? If he hadn’t been an assassin sent to kill her, she would have taken him up on his offer of warming her bedroll that first night. But she wasn’t stupid. So she waited.

“Do you think he’s pretty?” Leliana asked one evening. The two had been stuck with laundry duty and were scrubbing the stains out of Alistair’s socks as he and Morrigan bickered over the correct way to roast a rabbit. 

“Huh?” Natia asked, pulled from another daydream about Zevran sidling up behind her in a dark cave, kissing down her exposed neck, and-

“I think all elves are beautiful, in a way,” Leliana continued, her tone thoughtful and introspective. Natia followed her gaze to where Zevran stood, happily throwing a stick for her mabari, Boulder. 

“Do you mean Zevran?” she asked, just to confirm.

“In Orlais, a beautiful elf was highly desired as a servant. I can only assume it is the same in Antiva,” she mused. “But he does not share the same features as the elves in Ferelden or Orlais. And there’s something enticing about his look. Like you can tell he’s been to far off lands just by looking at him, don’t you think?”

Leliana wasn’t really asking Natia so much as she was thinking out loud, but Natia felt the need to scramble for an answer anyway.

“Uh, he’s okay, I guess. I’m not really sure what counts as beautiful among elves.” Natia shrugged and tried to look uninterested, hopeful Leliana would not notice the way her eyes lingered over him even now, as happy to drink in the sight of him as she was to listen to him talk.

“Oh, I don’t just mean for an elf,” Leliana exclaimed, turning her eyes away from Zevran to look at Natia. “Beauty is not classified by race, I believe. All those stories of lovers, I must think they were beautiful as well, no? It certainly is what I imagine when he spins his tales.”  
Natia narrowed her eyes at Leliana, suspicious of the woman’s focus on Zevran’s looks. Had she already noticed the desire in Natia’s eyes? Or was her motivation something else entirely?

“What, do you want to knock-boots with him?” Natia arched her brow into what she hoped was a simply curious expression and made a careful note of Leliana’s reaction. When her eyes went wide in surprise and she laughed, a knot Natia hadn’t realized had formed in her gut eased.

“What a thought!” she exclaimed. “No doubt he would enjoy such a prospect. But he flirts too much and too freely. I think he believes that the most expedient path to safety is through the intimacy of intercourse. Perhaps I am old fashioned, but I do not enjoy the idea of love-making with someone only interested in trading his body for his life. I prefer partners who are as attracted to me as I am to them.”

“Aren’t you beautiful, though?” Natia pressed. “Why wouldn’t he be attracted to you?”

“I am flattered you think so.” A blush crept onto Leliana’s cheeks, and she looked away before answering. “Alas, I do not believe there is one among us that he would pursue were he free to do with his life as he desired.”

A slimy feeling crept over Natia’s skin as she turned back to the washing. She thought of Rica and the way she traded her body for the chance at safety and status. She had always hated what her sister had been forced to do, squeezed by poverty into one of the only avenues for survival available to a casteless woman. If they’d had any other choice, Natia would have taken it and spared Rica the humiliation.

But wasn’t that exactly what Zevran was doing now? When faced with death, he offered his body for survival, no matter his own desires. She had always been disgusted by the nobles who took advantage of the oppressive system that allowed for Noble Hunters to exist. Now she was disgusted with herself. If she slept with him, she’d be no better than them.

So he flirted. It wasn’t a promise. It was a tool, and he wielded it no differently than she did her sleight of hand or persuasive acting. He didn’t want her. He was only protecting himself. As Leliana said, he’d never look twice at her if she didn’t hold his life in her hands. After all, she wasn’t beautiful like him. She wasn’t beautiful like Rica, either, or even Leliana. She was just a duster, the product of bad genetics on both sides. 

She was stupid for ever believing she’d been anything else.


	2. Incorrigible Flirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natia argues with Zevran but never really says what she really means.

Natia didn’t put a stop to the flirting. She rationalized that it was just some harmless fun, that no one would get hurt by it. And if she flirted back, well, that was only so he’d know she wasn’t turning on him, so he’d know he didn’t have to fear her. But she couldn’t watch him anymore. Every time she caught herself gazing at the way his golden hair caught the sunlight tracing the lines of his tattoos with her eyes, she’d become nauseous, ashamed for continuing to leer at him.

But then the flirting had intensified. It was more focused, heaped upon her with increasing inclusivity, Zevran’s eyes searching hers out with an intensity that could start a bonfire. It made her stomach turn. To make matters worse, others had started to follow his lead. Alistair had cornered her and tried to give her a rose. Leliana kept finding excuses to touch her, offering to braid her hair, give her archery tips, or sit a little too close to tell a story.

She finally snapped one night shortly after they’d left behind Kinloch Hold with another mage in their party. Zevran had sat himself beside her after dinner, pulling out his own blades to sharpen just as she did. He’d begun by complimenting her care of the steel, then moved to praise her hands, then her face, then a number of other things she tried to tune out as a roaring built up in her ears.

“Stop. Just stop, okay! I don’t need you to keep doing this.”

“What is it that I am doing?” he asked, one graceful eyebrow arching.

“Look, you’re worth more than just… making me feel good about myself.” She waved her hands in the air, trying to convey her meaning through gesture when her words failed her. When it became clear he still didn’t understand, she sighed. “This constant flirting and compliments. I get it, okay. You think if you flatter me, I’ll be less likely to decide you aren’t worth the trouble. It’s smart. But it’s unnecessary. You don’t have to keep being this nice to me.”

“Perhaps I enjoy telling you how beautiful you are,” he purred, leaning towards her with a devilish grin. For a second, her eyes were drawn to the curve of his lips, soft dark skin stretched over perfect white teeth. Her own distraction made her growl, and she abruptly stood up and stalked away from him a few paces. The smile dropped from his golden face. “If you do not appreciate my admiration, just say so. I do not like being where I am unwanted.”

“Fine, make me the bad guy.” Natia threw up her hands in consternation, then folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “Flattery is only an effective tool if your target believes it’s genuine. I know better.”

Now it was Zevran’s turn to glare at her. “Genuine? You are saying I am insincere?”

“I’m saying you can stop pretending,” she clarified. “I’m not going to change my mind about killing you or abandoning you. You’re good in a fight, and you’ve proven enough times that I can trust you not to stab me in the back. I don’t need the sodding pity attention.”

Zevran stared at her slack-jawed. It unnerved her, the way he could so easily put on whatever emotion suited his purposes at the time. Now he wanted her to feel guilty. No wonder he had been such an effective assassin. He must have gotten his marks to eat out of his hand before taking their lives. But she wasn’t his target anymore, and she wasn’t his patron either. If he was going to stay, he’d stay because he added to the team, not because she found him to be a diverting beauty. 

He was a beauty, though. She couldn’t say it to his face, but that was the real reason his flirting bothered her. He didn’t mean a word of it, but that wouldn’t bug her so much if she didn’t want him to mean it. Every time he called her beautiful, her heart soared before she could remind it that he was only protecting himself. Every time he leaned close and whispered in her ear, she’d have a moment where her pulse quickened and her skin flushed before she remembered that he’d never actually touch her, not out of a desire for her, anyway. He was an elf and gorgeous. She was decent enough for a dwarf, but she could never compare to the other lovers he’d had. She couldn’t even compare to his other options in the party. Leliana, Morrigan, Alistair, even Sten would be more attractive to a man like Zevran. 

“I think it’s my turn for the watch,” she grumbled, then stalked away from the campfire. Hot, angry tears spilled onto her cheeks in the darkness, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. 

Stupid. It was stupid how much he got under her skin. Alistair and Leliana were just as attractive, just as unattainable, but she wasn’t crying over them in the shadows. What made Zevran so special, then? Why couldn’t she just move on, focus on someone or something else? She’d had her share of lovers in Orzammar, both brands and desperate men from the Warrior and Merchant castes. Some had been beautiful and some had possessed other desirable qualities, but once the tumble was over she’d never had trouble moving on with her life. And she had never, ever gotten hung up on someone who didn’t even actually want her.

Perhaps it was the onslaught of attention from Alistair and Leliana as well. Too many people whose emotions she had to juggle. Make them feel welcome and safe. Inspire their bravery. Don’t promise more than can be given. Make each one feel special and worthy. Had she dropped the ball somewhere along the way, that they all felt they had to woo her favor? She missed the days when she’d had no power. No one pretended to like her back then. They either did or didn’t, and she hadn’t had to waste her energy figuring out motives.

Natia wished for Rica’s wisdom so hard it hurt. She’d know exactly what to say, give the perfect advice to help Natia move on. And Natia would groan and scoff and drag her feet, but she’d listen, and eventually, Rica’s advice would work. Not that Natia had ever asked Rica about lovers before, but Rica knew men, how they thought and what they wanted, and if anyone could counsel her right now, it was her big sister.

But Rica was back in Orzammar, doing Stone knows what with Stone knows who. There was only one person in the whole camp who Natia could hope would offer any useful advice whatsoever. She’d just have to be very careful about how she went about asking for it.


	3. The Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan finds herself in the unexpected position of providing confidence and counsel.

“I hate everyone.”

Morrigan raised one eyebrow as Natia plopped herself on the ground next to the witch’s fire, her arms crossed and face red.

“I would welcome the sentiment, were I to believe it genuine,” she said in a careful, measured tone. “Alas, you have shown yourself to be quite friendly with all you encounter, so I must suspect mere anger, not true loathing.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to go,” Natia complained, frowning. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes, everyone’s terrible, and you’re quite right to hate them.’”

“Everyone is terrible,” Morrigan agreed. “You would be quite right to hate them, if you actually did.”

Natia groaned. She placed an elbow on her knee and settled her chin on the upturned palm, glaring into the fire. She missed Rica. Rica would know exactly what to say to make her feel better and would find a way to turn her hurt and anger into laughter. But Rica wasn’t here, so Morrigan would have to play the part.

“Do you ever feel like everyone is having a cruel joke at your expense?” she asked the witch. “Like they’ve all figured out your biggest insecurity and have ganged up against you?”

“I have very few things which others would observe as weaknesses, especially in the realm of social interaction,” Morrigan boasted. “I am well aware of the social customs with which I am unfamiliar, but I give them little heed. If others wish to jeer, let them. Their laughter cannot annoy me when I think so little of them to begin with.”

“Oh. I guess it’s just me, then.” Natia’s eyes filled with tears that she desperately tried to blink back, and she hastened to rise from her spot. Maybe she could find Sandal, instead. The conversation would be dull, but at least he wouldn’t make her feel worse.

“Wait, Warden,” Morrigan called. Natia paused and turned back to her, expectant. She pursed her lips, uncertain, but spoke anyway. “One of the social customs I find myself inexperienced in is the art of comforting. I do not wish to see you distraught, but I am unsure how I can help.”

“You could start by asking me what’s wrong,” Natia suggested.

“Very well,” Morrigan agreed and gestured for Natia to reseat herself. “What is bothering you?”

“Zevran. And Alistair. And Leliana.”

“You...will have to be more specific,” Morrigan cautioned. “All three of them have a number of irritating personality traits.”

“The flirting.”

“I was not aware that you were subject to such abuse from all three of them.” Morrigan’s eyebrows raised in surprise, her eyes darting toward the larger fire around which the three in question were gathered. “I am well aware of Zevran’s overtures. Are Alistair and Leliana as infuriating?”

“They’re not as bad,” Natia admitted. “But Leliana has taken to teasing me, telling me how cute I am.”

“How awful,” Morrigan agreed, nodding in solemnity. 

“It is bad. I’m not a child. Or a nug. I’m not cute.”

“I have never thought either children or nugs could be considered cute.”

“The point is, I’m not. And Alistair tried to call me rare and beautiful. He tried to give me a rose.” Natia scrubbed her hands through her hair, aware of how it all sounded. She was throwing a fit about nothing. They were being nice, Morrigan would say. She should take the compliments. But it didn’t feel nice. It felt like a trick.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes in thought. “All these actions appear to me as overtures to initiate a physical encounter. Is this what you object to? You do not wish for that sort of intimacy?”

“Are you kidding?” sputtered Natia. “I haven’t had sex since before I first left Orzammar. I’d be thrilled to bang any one of them.”

“Then I do not see the problem. Simply accept, if you so wish.”

“They’re not actually interested in me,” Natia stressed, annoyed that she had to spell it out.

“You are certain of this?” Morrigan asked. 

“Well, they can’t be. It wouldn’t make any sense. It’s not me they like, it’s the position of power that I’m in, you know?”

“As irritating as I find each of them, none are known to be liars,” Morrigan pointed out gently. “If their offers were insincere, it would be a deviation from the character they have long presented. What proof do you have of their duplicity?”

“Well, look at me.” Natia gestured to herself, and Morrigan’s eyes swept over the dark-haired dwarf quickly.

“I do not understand your meaning,” she said, her confusion evident in the wrinkles that formed on her forehead.

“Leliana is graceful and refined and gorgeous,” Natia began to explain. “Alistair is strong and handsome. Zevran is so pretty even Shale notices. I’m not even pretty for a dwarf. Ask Bodan. Homely, I think is the word.”

Morrigan took a deep breath and frowned at the smaller woman. “Am I to believe your objection to their advances stems from your assumption that you are unworthy, based entirely on your perception of your physical appeal?”

Natia reddened at her summation. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“Hmm. Indeed.” Morrigan considered her friend for a moment, then asked, “If you will indulge me, I would be very interested to know which of your features you find so repellent.”

“Ha, where to start,” Natia laughed, but Morrigan looked entirely serious. “Okay, well the most obvious is my nose.”

“Your nose?”

“Yeah. It’s huge. I mean, it’s narrow, but it sticks out from my face like a bird’s beak.” Natia turned her face to the side, giving Morrigan the full view.

“One could argue that a prominent nose such as yours is a mark of nobility. Your nose leads your face as you lead your party: with fearless courage. A lesser nose would not suit you.”

Natia stared at Morrigan, wide-eyed. When she had collected herself, she tried again. “My mouth is weird. Wide, but I’ve got thin lips.”

Again, Morrigan countered her perception. “Your mouth is indeed wide, with a firm, straight line that broaches no questions nor conveys doubt. If your lips are thin, I would not know, as you so often smile and laugh in such a way as to only associate your mouth with a sense of joy.”

“Morrigan, if you’re not careful, people are going to suspect you’re nice,” Natia cautioned.

“Nonsense,” she countered. “I gift you no insincere compliment. My assessments are without bias, and must therefore be interpreted as fact. Shall we continue?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask about my hair.”

“Long, thick, dark hair? Hair that easily holds the many braids you weave into it? Hair that remains soft-looking even after weeks without washing it? Is that the hair you speak of?”

“Okay, fine. I get your point,” Natia grumbled. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.”

“Do you still doubt the sincerity of the attention you have received?” Morrigan asked. Natia wanted to say no, that Morrigan’s talk had cured her of her doubts, but she couldn’t. Instead, she just nodded. “Then let me suggest an alternative cause of your reticence. Perhaps it is not the insincerity of their compliments that you find most troubling, but the exclusivity of their focus upon your outward beauty.”

“What do you mean?” Natia asked, confused even more.

“There is more to desire than simple physical appeal, which I’m sure you well know,” Morrigan explained. “Doubting their interest in your beauty is a superior alternative to what I believe is the true reason which gives you pause: that they are interested only in your beauty, and not in the woman you truly view yourself to be.”

If Morrigan had taken that moment to shift into a bear and maul her, Natia was sure it would have hurt less. She couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes. All her life, only one person had ever loved her: Rica. Not her abusive mother, not her absent father, not any of the random liaisons she had shared beds with, and even Leske had only just liked her. It stung, as rejection always did, but now was the first time she had ever wanted it to be any different. She wanted Leliana to enjoy her company. She wanted Alistair to believe she was as rare and wonderful as he said. She wanted Zevran to crave her presence as she craved his. But deep in her heart, she just couldn’t believe it to be true.

“Thanks, Morrigan,” Natia whispered, trying to keep the tone of her voice flat. Morrigan wasn’t fooled. As she watched the dwarf walk away and return to her tent, the witch felt a stirring in her chest. It was akin to anger, but it was too soft. It almost reminded her of the way she had felt when her mother destroyed a beautiful mirror she’d had as a child, but this was less intense. More distant. She didn’t like it. She also didn’t like that to get rid of the feeling, she’d likely have to intercede on Natia’s behalf. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself actually caring about the happiness of someone besides herself.


	4. Wildstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan takes matters into her own hands to protect her friend's emotions. She means well. She really does.

The next night, when they had stopped for camp, Morrigan encouraged Natia to practice her archery skills by hunting down a few rabbits for dinner. The moment she was out of earshot, the witch marched to the main campfire, pointed at Alistair, Zevran, and Leliana, and gestured for them to take a seat before her. The cool look she gave them suppressed their instincts to resist.

“It has come to my attention that our fearless leader has become somewhat plagued by unwanted attention as of late,” she began.

“If you’re talking about Loghain’s men, they’ve been after us for a while now. Honestly, I don’t know how you didn’t notice,” Alistair pointed out. She shot him a look, and he silenced.

“I am talking about the comments that have been made regarding Natia’s personage by the three of you. Comments that might seem endearing to the guileless, but have vexed and perplexed the Warden. Comments regarding the nature of her appearance and desirability that were unsolicited and unwelcome.” 

Morrigan made sure to meet the eyes of each of the three seated before her. Alistair looked bashful and rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping into his cheeks. Zevran looked surprised and confused. Leliana looked defensive.

“This is your fault,” the redhead muttered, throwing a dark look at Zevran. 

“My fault? Is it not all three of us being scolded? Is it not all three of us my Warden is upset with?” he defended.

“All I did was call her cute,” she protested. “I wasn’t flirting. I was just being friendly. Yes, I like the way she wears her hair, and I like when she listens to my stories, but I’m not blind. I see the way she’s looked at you from day one.”

“How does she look at him?” Alistair cut in, his sheepish frown deepening in suspicion. 

“Do not be so coy, Leliana,” Zevran shot back. “You forget, I have been to Orlais. I know what it means when a woman compliments another woman about her hair. It is the same when a man does it to another man.”

“How does she look at him?” Alistair repeated. Then his eyes went round as he processed Zevran’s comments. “You’ve commented on my hair. What does that mean?”

The two rogues continued to ignore him as they bickered back and forth.

“You wouldn’t know coy if it snuck into your bedroll at night and ripped away the sheets. Your flirtations are as subtle as a battering ram. No wonder she feels she’s under attack.”

“A battering ram? For your information, I recite poetry, I offer massages, I call her beautiful at every turn. If that is an attack, then I must be a most feared warrior.”

“Feared,” Leliana scoffed. “Hardly. You are not so much dangerous as pathetically annoying. Even a lecher would not be so harassing.”

“A lecher! You take that back, you spiteful bard.” Zevran pulled a dagger from his hip, and Leliana matched him. Alistair saw the anger in their eyes and scrambled out of the way, but Morrigan had had enough. She raised her staff skyward, and a thick coating of snow dumped on top of the feuding pair, silencing their shouts and dissipating their rage.

“If that is all, then I am going to explain how things shall proceed from this moment forward,” she smiled as Leliana and Zevran began to shiver and Alistair dusted off his trousers. “In a few days, we will rendezvous with the Dalish camp. After that, we will travel to Denerim, as Natia has decided. During this time, not a single one of you will send her so much as a flirtatious smile. You will not sit within arms reach of her around the fire. You will neither sing nor recite poetry. You will not offer to help her train. You will stay out of her way and out of her tent. You will treat her only as a friend and a commander, and if you fail in this simple task, when we finally travel to Orzammar, I will seek out the secrets of the stone and turn you all into golems. If you have any questions about this agreement, you may ponder them on your own time, as I care little for your comprehension.”

With that, the witch turned and abandoned them, returning to the small fire she had built at a distance. At her exit, the three of them began arguing again, but she cared little of how they treated each other. Her priority was Natia, not the buffoonish companions she kept.

When Natia returned from her hunt, three rabbits slung over one shoulder, they had quieted down to a silent argument conveyed in dark looks and bared teeth, careful to keep such displays from her awareness. It was the quietest dinner they had eaten in a long time, and Shale filled the silence with questions directed at the Warden and Wynne in equal measure. Natia stayed relaxed throughout the evening and retired to her tent only when she grew tired, not as an escape from the others.

Morrigan hoped the change would be permanent, at least until Denerim. She did not relish the idea of venturing into the Deep Roads, but she would, if necessary. Threats were useless words if they could not be followed through, and Morrigan did not waste her time with useless words. Plus, she enjoyed the idea of Alistair as a golem, particularly if she held the control rod. She smiled at the idea of ordering him to walk into Lake Calenhad, throwing away the rod, and leaving him there to stand for all eternity. There, at least, he’d finally be silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: How do you name your chapters, Ms. Rottingstone?  
> A: Thank you for asking, hypothetical reader. I like to name my chapters based on a wisp of an idea before I actually write the chapter. That way, when I'm done, the title seems random or even completely contradictory, since the story has changed many times during the writing process.   
> Q: Why don't you just rename the chapter when you're done writing it?  
> A: A poorly titled chapter will confuse the readers, which will keep them thinking about the story for far longer than if the title made sense. I'm brilliant in that way.  
> Q: Are you sure it's not just that you're too lazy to change them?  
> A: No. How dare you. I'm offended. I'm brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you.  
> Q: ... Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.


	5. Dalish Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While visiting the Dalish, Zevran gets a gift, gives a gift, and resolves to be a better man.

If Natia’s tales were to be believed, the Dalish camp had been plagued by werewolves just a few months prior, shortly before Zevran had first spied her on the road the day he’d tried to kill her. Of course, if he’d known about her battles with demons and werewolves, not to mention her ability to talk two warring factions into a peace so significant it ended a centuries-old curse, he wouldn’t have even bothered to try to fight her. Or maybe he would have. He’d been in a dark place, then.

Much like the Dalish camp, Natia’s influence had affected in him great change, both in circumstance and morale. These were not the same Dalish that had welcomed him so coldly in his youth, nor, according to Alistair, had welcomed their party so coldly prior to the curse’s break. Similarly, Zevran was also a changed elf. More and more, he felt his smiles become genuine, his jokes made out of comfort, not defense. He was relaxed around her- truthfully, around all of them- and now, walking through the Dalish camp, he found that he was not on edge, counting the ways death could surprise him. He simply walked, nodding at the passersby, breathing in the forest air.

He rounded an aravel and saw her. She had found a Dalish fighter to spar with, and he could hear her laughter as the two danced around each other, each coated in a sheen of sweat, heavy breaths drawing his eyes to shapely chests.

Zevran watched her practice with her blades. She was...what was the word for it? Oh, yes. Scrappy. She did not move with the practiced finesse of a trained swordsman. She did not follow the steps of any number of well-established schools, and her jabs and parries looked nothing like the masters. She fought like she had been trained by the threat of death in back alleys and bullies big enough to crush her quickly. Her hands looked for the quickest kill, her feet for the speedy escape. She was dangerous precisely because she was untrained, never taking the expected or established route. If she hadn’t been good, she’d have died long before he met her.

Zevran felt a flutter in his chest. He could watch her for days, but he knew he shouldn’t. For one, if Morrigan discovered him breaking her rules, she’d douse him in snow again, and he’d learned he hated the snow with an endless passion. For another, it was torture without reprieve. The more deadly she proved to be, the more beautiful she became in his eyes, and the more he realized he’d never be able to get close.

This should not bother him. She was his benefactor, that was all. When she no longer had a use for him, they’d part ways and think of each other no more. It mattered little that she was beautiful. There were many beautiful companions to be had and very little to elevate her above the rest. And yet… if only she’d look at him. 

“Zevran!” Maker’s breath. He’d been staring at her in such a trance, he hadn’t noticed that she had turned and looked at him. She jogged up to him at a good pace, her pack bouncing at her side.

“Have you finished demonstrating the might of the dwarves to your Dalish combatant?” he asked, pasting on a smirk as if he’d said something untoward. “Or did you seek only to tease your audience with a dazzling spectacle.”

“I’m nowhere near as entertaining to watch as you,” she joked, rolling her eyes. 

“Ah, but I seek to entertain only so you will watch me,” he ribbed. “Whereas you entertain by the very nature of your actions.”

“Look,” she huffed, her cheeks reddening, then reached into her pack for a loosely wrapped package. She shoved it into his hands. “I just wanted to give you these.”

He felt the slight tingle of guilt as he peered down at the package in his hands. He had been told to back off, but he couldn't help himself. And she was just trying to be nice. 

“I didn’t even steal them,” she said quietly. “I bought them with actual money that I actually earned.”

He carefully pulled at the wrapping until it revealed the item held within. “Gloves? You give me gloves? What for?”

Zevran hadn’t meant for his questions to sound so harsh. He was just confused, and he didn’t understand what her motives were. Was she trying to bribe him? Butter him up? Was it a consolation prize for the tragedy she forced him to endure by not reciprocating his advances? Was she repaying him for something he hadn’t realized he’d done? Or was she simply trying to put him deeper in her debt, to further cement his loyalty to her?

“They’re Dalish,” she pointed out, her tone hesitant. “Like your mother’s…”

He looked up at her as she trailed off, the confusion he felt no doubt evident in his slack jaw and wide eyes. He couldn’t even remember telling her about his mother’s gloves, a single anecdote in the slew of stories he’d plied her with while trying to earn her affection. But Natia had remembered. She’d remembered, and she’d thought enough of it to find a pair that so closely matched the ones he’d described. A different embroidery pattern, perhaps, but the same soft color of halla leather and the same fur trim.

“Maker’s breath, you’re right,” he whispered, letting his fingers trail over the stitching. “It is like my mother’s”

“It was nothing,” she shrugged, looking away from him again. The absence of her gaze felt like a cloud passing in front of the sun, and he suddenly hated himself for how he was reacting. Of course she wasn’t trying to manipulate him. Gifts weren’t her usual tools of persuasion, and if she’d wanted something from him, she was perfectly adept at eliciting it without spending her hard-earned money. Coin was one thing she was never frivolous about.

“Do I seem surprised?” he rushed to say, hoping to draw her gaze back to him. “Perhaps I am. No one has simply… give me a gift before. Thank you.”

She smiled at him but didn’t meet his eyes, and as she walked away, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d ruined a glimmer of a chance that hadn’t been there before. A chance at what, he wasn’t sure, but he needed a distraction, or he’d drive himself mad replaying the whole incident again and again in his mind.

Distraction came in the form of a young hunter, desperate to leave his apprenticeship behind and bond with some red-headed elven lass. All he had to do was bring back the pelt of a beast, but he hadn’t been given permission to enter the forest alone, as the clan was still recovering from their losses over the past year. Zevran was happy to accompany him, even if the thick woods they ventured into weren’t his ideal setting. It was a nice break to leave behind the rest of the party, and Cammen needed little in the way of assistance. He tracked a bear to a set of ruins, and a few well-placed arrows felled the great beast without the need for Zevran to so much as draw his blades.

As Cammen set to the disgusting and messy work of skinning the animal, Zevran occupied himself by poking around the ruins. He figured anything of value had long since disappeared, but poking around in places he didn’t belong was one of the simple pleasures in life he would not deny himself. 

The glint of sunlight off a shiny surface caught his eye, and he toed at a pile of loose rubble until the object was uncovered. He couldn’t tell what it was at first. An inky, shiny black, the object seemed to be metal or stone. When he picked it up, he noticed how smoothly it had been polished, the black stone decorated with small white dots. At first, they seemed random, but then he recognized the constellation of Bellitanus, the Maiden, and realized the white dots were meant to be stars. It was as if someone had painted the whole sky onto the orb. 

Such a trinket was undoubtedly worthless. He couldn’t tell what the stone was, but it was heavy and entirely unremarkable. In some of the larger markets of Orlais or Antiva, one could get a similar object with diamonds for stars set into polished jet for a price similar to Fereldan’s annual GDP. In comparison, this thing was nothing. And yet, when the time came to depart the forest, it had settled into the pack at his hip.

By the time he saw Natia again, he’d entirely forgotten about the painted skyball. Watching as the light of the evening’s campfire danced across her face, he forgot almost everything he’d ever known. All he could think about were the creases that formed at the corners of her small eyes when she smiled, the melodic tone of her voice as she teased Alistair, the rhythmic thrum of her short fingers as she tapped them against her knee.

“And how many pockets have you emptied today?” he asked, casually taking a seat a good distance away from her. 

“For your information, not a single one,” she protested.

“Tsk. It is sad to see such a talented thief let their skills rust from disuse. If you are not careful, you may find yourself forced to walk the path of upright citizen,” he teased.

“Never,” she complained, making a face and sticking out her tongue in disgust. “But I’m a thug, not a thief, and besides, I’d much rather steal from nobles than my own allies.”

“Ha! You steal more from your allies than anyone I’ve ever met,” Zevran rebutted. At the indignant look she gave him, he smiled widely. “Oh, perhaps you do not steal their coin or possessions, but stealing hearts, stealing the breath from their lungs, this too is theft.”

She snorted and flicked a twig at him, then rolled her eyes. “It’s not stealing if they give it away.”

“It is if you never give it back.”

She turned her head away from him, looking up into the clear bright sky of evening, the rapidly darkening blue twinkling with stars. He could practically feel her pull away from him. What was wrong with him, that he couldn’t just let well enough alone? If she wanted him, she would have made it clear by now. But he couldn’t help but cling to the technicalities. She’d never said she didn’t like him or want him. She’d only said he didn’t need to flirt. Even Morrigan hadn’t said Natia disliked him. Only that she was frustrated by his advances. Part of his brain told him to read between the lines and realize it was never going to happen, but part of his brain told him to read between the lines and see that there was still hope he could slide into her small clothes.

“I know what you did, you know,” she finally said, her eyes still trained upward.

“Whatever Wynne has told you, I assure you, I am completely innocent of the matter,” he protested.

“No, not to Wynn. For Cammen.”

“Oh.” He’d almost forgotten about the young hunter. As soon as they’d returned to camp, Zevran had wandered off. He couldn’t even be sure the other elf had talked to his beloved, let alone what the outcome had been.

“You helped two young lovers come together,” she said softly.

“Yes, well, I was hoping they’d invite me into their future marriage bed, but I was rudely denied such an opportunity. I suppose I’ll have to settle for staring at the stars, as you are.” Zevran leaned back on his elbows, turning his head up but keeping his eyes on Natia. He’d seen the stars a million times and had long since tired of them. She was far more satisfying to look at. 

“It’s not settling,” she said. “Staring at the stars. I still feel like I’m looking at something impossible. I’d heard that some dwarves, when they go to the surface, feel terrified they’ll fall off the face of the earth without a roof to hold them down. I never felt like that. I wish I could fall up. I’d love to touch the stars. They’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. Don’t you think so?”

_ No _ , he wanted to say.  _ The stars could never compare to the sparkle in your eyes as you gaze at them. That is true beauty _ . Instead, he reached inside his pack and pulled out the polished stone he’d picked up earlier.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Now you can see them even at midday. I think all of the constellations are correct, but I am no expert.”

She gazed at the skyball and slowly took it from him. This time, it was her turn to be slaw-jawed and wide-eyed, shocked at the appearance of a gift. His stomach flipped over at her response, and he had the sudden urge to snatch it back, throw it as far as he could, and then flee the whole situation. The smile that spread across her face as she gazed at the worthless trinket made him want to fight someone, anyone, to ensure that it would never fade. 

She glanced at him quickly, too briefly, and tucked the skyball under her chin. “Thank you, Zev. I’ll keep it safe.”

“It is no great gem,” he shrugged, rising to his feet. “I simply thought you would enjoy it more than I.”

He made his excuses and left her, desperate for the space to be able to think again. If her gift to him had left him feeling unbalanced, his gift to her was practically unmooring. What was wrong with him? He was acting like he was a teenager, so desperate to bed a woman vastly his superior that his emotions were completely consuming him. He should find another partner to take to bed. The Dalish camp was full of attractive men and women to choose from, but as long as she was nearby, even the most beautiful of partners looked little more appealing than an ogre.

Perhaps it was hero worship that had him all out of sorts. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful and desirable. She had also saved his life, and he couldn’t count the times she’d simply slaughtered those foes foolish enough to challenge her. He didn’t just want to bed her; he wanted to be her. Yes, that was it. Sex was all well and good, but what he really wanted to do was prove that he was worthy of having been saved by her. He could start by showing some proper appreciation. That would make him feel better.

That night, he threw away his old gloves and pulled on the Dalish ones. As long as she lived, he’d never wear a different pair.


End file.
